Languid afternoon—
 
near the steaming compost heap
 
a dove leaves her song.

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Little brown sparrow,
 
to help the melons ripen,
 
warm them with your song.

 
 
 

slipping through the slats
 
of my next-door neighbor’s fence:
 
a mourning dove’s song

 
 
 

Blackbird, dare I hope
 
that when you sing at daybreak
 
I will know your song?

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
the mist that shrouds my plum tree
 
also shrouds your song.

 
 
 

An April morning—
 
finches and sparrows bless me
 
with their waking songs.

Owl

 
 
 

Owl in my oak tree,
 
have you nothing to give me
 
but your mournful song?